


Probably Forever

by obscure_affection



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, First Kisses, John smokes, M/M, Scars, Texting, Violence, getting drunk with greg, i literally do not remember writing this so if you find errors tell me, often funny despite what those previous tags might have you think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscure_affection/pseuds/obscure_affection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock assumed that John would have a sexuality crisis over it, try to prove his heterosexuality via multiple female conquests, then come to a slow acceptance of whatever he was.</p><p>For his part, John was expecting Sherlock to lose patience with whatever game he was playing and kiss John into oblivion at some inappropriate point in time. Probably near a dead body.</p><p>For once, they were both wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Probably Forever

  
‘So he’s dead?’  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
‘Well…’ John hesitated. ‘Good.’  
  
As one, Sherlock and John collapsed backwards onto the lounge. The lamp John had thrown in shock (and anger, and grief) was still broken in the corner of the room. Neither of them had any intention of picking it up. Sherlock assumed that as John had thrown it, John would pick it up. John assumed that it had been Sherlock who’d faked his death for two years, he was the one who ought to clean up the mess.  
  
(The lamp would remain broken in the corner for five months).  
  
Sitting side by side, with the body of Sebastian Moran still vivid in the minds eye, it was a few moments before either of them realised… Realised it was, in fact, their first moments alone together since Sherlock had announced his return by sneaking into 221b dressed as an old woman.  
  
(Sherlock would always insist that it had been essential to keeping John safe. Though admitting that to be true, John would always counter that Sherlock hadn’t need to say ‘surprise’ like it was a joke).  
  
The end result, however, was the same. Sherlock, skinny hyped from the post-case, and John, stunned but cautiously content, were sitting side by side on the lounge.  
  
It was an internal struggle for John. Part of him still wanted to literally dance and possibly shout a thanks to whomever it was that had made his one last requested miracle a reality. Another part of him wanted to cry for about a week and punch Sherlock. The lamp had missed. His fist would not.  
  
Yet another part of him wanted to sleep, to let himself be wrapped in this happy change and just accept it. Dismiss the last two years as nothing but a blip (a bad dream, nothing more) and continue on with Sherlock as if nothing had happened. Naturally, everything had happened. Well. Maybe not. John was tired and emotional- Sherlock would not approve- maybe nothing had happened after all.  
  
John let his head slip onto Sherlocks shoulder. He was too short to be comfortable and Sherlock grunted. A few seconds passed. They did not seem like seconds- they seemed longer, thanks to all the thoughts those seconds contained. Moments elongated by emotion.  
  
Sherlock moved his arm so that it wrapped around Johns waist. Tugging John upwards, and shuffling down himself, they came to a sort of warm and soft tangle of limbs. Neither of them felt much like speaking. John had half turned to rest his head below Sherlocks collar bone.  
  
 _The first time Greg had come around After, they had drunk vodka. Normally John did not drink vodka, because it made him think about Harry of his father. Yet when he had seen Greg with a blame and grief in his eyes, and a set of lines around his lips that had not existed Before, John had wanted nothing more than a bottle of vodka. Drown himself in the damn stuff._  
  
 _‘Ya knew ‘im longer’n me…’  
_  
 _‘But you knew im better’n me… Knew him ‘hole fuckin f-five years, six mor like, actually, and we didn’ never, I mean he was just so, you know?’  
_  
 _‘I do,’ John had slurred right back, nodding. ‘He was all like, Shrrlock, but he did like you you know, dam’ sure of it, he di…’  
_  
 _Greg was trying to pour another shot without splashing the drink all over the table and floor. He was biting his tongue in effort.  
_  
 _‘Couldn’ta lived wif him, though, tha’ was all you. Made him better. ‘E didn’ use with you around…’  
_  
 _‘But I didn’ know ‘im then,’ John countered, trying to jab Greg and missing. ‘I wouldn’t ‘af manegde-managed if you hadn’ been ‘round first an’ helped ‘im in the early days…’  
_  
 _‘You was ‘is best friend, was ovious…’  
_  
 _‘Obvious?’  
_  
 _‘That. Yer. You all on ‘is drug- I mean you writing ‘bout him on your blog- I know it wasn’ like that, you two, not like, uh-‘  
_  
 _‘Sexual?’  
_  
 _‘Yeah. Like. You didn’ shag. But you loved.’  
_  
 _‘We, ah…’ John, wasn’t drunk enough to not to hesitate, now. He’d never told anybody this before, and as far as he knew, neither had Sherlock. Sherlock, dead in the ground. ‘We, ah… like, it wasn’ that we were together, no, but we’d kiss, sometimes. Never tol’ anyone before.’  
_  
 _Greg was looking at John with wide eyes. His shock made him look, somehow, ten years younger. For a mad moment (he wanted to giggle about it, but could not laugh) he felt like he was gossiping in a school yard.  
_  
 _‘John,’ Greg grabbed his hand, crushing it. ‘John, I didn’ know… I can’t even imagine, him, Slurlock, sorry, Sherlock, kissin’ anyone, and now he’s…’  
_  
 _Not able to say the word dead, he changed tact, asking the (now close to tears) John another, better, question.  
_  
 _‘How’d it start?’_  
  
Sleep.  
  
It would be wonderful to sleep.   
  
The rise and fall of Sherlock (alive and breathing against him) was so peaceful. Despite the fact they were both fully dressed, sitting upright on the lounge, and wearing their shoes, John felt content enough to snooze.   
  
Slowly, Sherlocks hand rose to pet Johns hair. It was not a passionate thing- his hands did not rake through the fine hair, tugging at it. Instead he was merely running his fingers lightly across Johns scalp. The touch was more of a caress.  
  
‘I, ah…’ John felt as if the words were emerging slowly from himself, from within a deep well of fatigue. ‘I’m sure you already deduced it. But I missed you.’  
  
 _In the back of a taxi, it was dark enough to pretend it wasn’t happening.  
_  
 _Sherlock had been pressing his face against the window to look at the stars. He was experiencing a rare moment of crippling existentialism; it had hit him that one day he would be gone, and his work would be gone. London, crime, 221b and cigarettes. Burnt and forgotten. Even John.  
_  
 _The thought had hurt in a way he had not expected. It did not seem possible that John could die. He was always around, a constant. Sherlock talked to John even when John wasn’t around. In his jumpers. John._  
  
 _He could see very clearly where John was sitting within the taxi, one hand resting in the space between them. It wasn’t an invitation (they had never done it before, John would probably question his motives) but Sherlock could not help himself, could not resist.  
_  
 _His gloved hand reached out and curled around Johns. Through the leather, he could feel John, warm. He did not turn to answer the questioning look John gave him. After a moment of hesitation, John did not ask.  
_  
 _They were just two grown men holding hands in the back of a dark taxi, driving under the stars._  
  
‘I missed you too…’  
  
Sherlock slid his hand under Johns chin, turning their heads until they were eye to eye. It was very silent in 221b and John wondered if Sherlock could hear both their hearts beating. Out of unison, probably.  
  
BeaBeat BeatBeaBeat BeatBeat….  
  
Dark blue eyes met grey-green eyes. Their pupils agreed, even if their hearts could not. Both their eyes were dark, wanting, hurt. John wondered if he was crying hot tears. Sherlock wondered how he looked to John, what it was in him specifically that made John gaze upon him.  
  
It was a chaste kiss, a mere brushing of full lips against thin lips. A soft moment of pressure. A slow, happy smile from Sherlock that John returned with his eyes. By unspoken agreement, there was no more kissing. Merely holding and breathing, and that was enough.  
  
 _It wasn’t always hand holding, though at first, it was always a taxi.  
_  
 _Sometimes Sherlock would sit very close to John, pressing their thighs together. Other times (if John was tired) Sherlock would move down in his seat, his shoulder low enough for John to rest his head on.  
_  
 _The kissing seemed to be the next step._  
  
 _Both of them were nervous about this step. They hadn’t asked each other about it (were both, in fact, trying to act as if nothing were happening) but both of them were expecting it at any moment.  
_  
 _Sherlock assumed that John would have a sexuality crisis over it, try to prove his heterosexuality via multiple female conquests, then come to a slow acceptance of whatever he was.  
_  
 _For his part, John was expecting Sherlock to lose patience with whatever game he was playing and kiss John into oblivion at some inappropriate point in time. Probably near a dead body.  
_  
 _For once, they were both wrong._  
  
 _John started it (not Sherlock) and it happened as they were standing by a taxi (not in it) neither of them had a sexuality crisis and no dead bodies were present. It was almost anti-climatic. John had been preparing witty retorts to the potential insults thrown at them both by Anderson and/or Donovan for weeks now, and resented having spent so much time on them.  
_  
 _They were waiting by the back of the taxi, at the edge of a wharf. It was pitch black and only seven minutes into what they both expected to be an hour long wait. John was glad that they were paying the driver with Mycrofts money.  
_  
 _Sherlock was trying to be sneaky and failing. He’d pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and was trying to light it without John seeing. Once he had it lit, he turned his head to inhale. The smoke burned down his throat and lit up his brain, relaxing the skin over his spine.  
_  
 _Then John snatched it away.  
_  
 _‘No, Sherlock.’  
_  
 _Sherlock pouted, his eyes demanding.  
_  
 _And then John began smoking. Stuck dumb by the look of John exhaling smoke from between his lips, tapping at the ash (he’d done this before, Sherlock realised, not many times but a few, Afghanistan?) Sherlock forgot all about being angry, about wanting his cigarette back.  
_  
 _‘I didn’t know you-‘  
_  
 _‘I know you didn’t know.’  
_  
 _‘Oh.’  
_  
 _‘Blow-backs?’_  
  
 _Mycroft had taught Sherlock how to smoke. It was something that Sherlock liked to remind his older brother during hard times. ‘My first addiction, thanks brother dear, the best gift you ever gave me…’_  
  
 _As a teen, Mycroft had been large. Because of that, he had been teased, been deemed lesser than. An easy target, the chubby boy, couldn’t run or hide, not with a stomach like that. He had not hated his size. Knew that sometimes girth could make a person seem yet more imposing. But on the whole, it had seemed that being large came with too many undesirable negatives. It had been unacceptable, to Mycroft, and so he had begun the diet that controlled his eating for the rest of his life._  
 _And when the rest of his life seemed too long a time, he would smoke to repress the craving to eat._  
  
 _Sherlock had found him smoking by the boat house. It was one of the few places that neither Mother nor Father would go, and a place of refuge for the brothers. Mycroft was nineteen and Sherlock just sixteen. Already, Mycroft had lost considerable weight. Though he knew he would never be as wraith-thin as his younger brother.  
_  
 _‘Mycroft, smoking? What would Mummy say…’  
_  
 _‘Mummy won’t find out.’  
_  
 _Sherlock sat down beside Mycroft, grinning.  
_  
 _‘Why won’t Mummy find out?’  
_  
 _‘Because you won’t tell her.’  
_  
 _‘And in exchange you will…?’  
_  
 _Mycroft sighed, pulled three cigarette from his pocket, and handed them to Sherlock. It was the only kind of hush money that mattered. Join my in my forbidden enjoyment, Sherlock, and then we both can be as guilty as the other…  
_  
 _‘Blow-backs?’  
_  
 _It was not something he had thought Sherlock would know about. Shrugging, Mycroft turned to his brother, holding smoke inside his mouth and beckoning with his hands. Almost nose-to-nose with him, Sherlock parted his lips, and Mycroft used his hands to create a safe space for the transference of smoke.  
_  
 _Mycroft exhaled and Sherlock brought the smoke into his own lungs. It felt intimate in a way Mycroft had not been expecting, and he flushed._  
  
 _Before Sherlock could answer (his answer had been written all over his face) John leant up and brought their lips together. Lips and smoke, the intimate feeling of somebodys tongue within his own mouth. Knowing it was John.  
_  
 _They lent backwards into the taxi, ignoring the wharf, the imminent danger. John put his hands on Sherlocks hips, holding tight. He could feel the point of the hip bone in the centre of his palm.  
_  
 _Sherlock was buzzing in the dark, his arms curled around Johns shoulders._  
  
The next crime scene they attended wasn’t normally the sort of thing that got media attention. A bunch of smashed marble busts found all over London, stolen without apparent reason and smashed in unusual locations. But because Sherlock was back from the dead, back with John, and back solving crimes with the Yard, a small riot of media personal had occurred outside the police tape.  
  
Sherlock walked through them without a second glance. People backed away as he charged through. It was uncertain what caused the protective bubble; did they know he was ready to deduce them? Did they consider him a dead man walking? Had they been warned off by Mycroft?   
  
The same respect had not been extended to John. Smaller and less-threatening (if only they knew) they surrounded him, asking any and every question that came to mind as loudly as possible.  
  
 **‘How did Sherlock fake his death?’  
**  
 **‘Will you become his full-time blogger?’  
**  
 **‘Did you know he was alive the whole time?’  
**  
 **‘Have you got any comments about Moriarty now?’  
**  
 **‘Are you in a sexual relationship?’  
**  
 **‘Have you resumed your relationship with Mr Holmes?’  
**  
 **‘What is your role in crime solving?’  
**  
 **‘Would you give us an interview?’  
**  
 **‘Have you learnt how to deduce?’  
**  
Once past the police tape, John was red-faced and angry. Donovan gave him a sympathetic look and pointed towards where Sherlock was, oblivious to his struggle. Already investigating and shouting at Anderson, it seemed. He wondered how many of the photos they were taking would end up in the paper. Harry would love this.   
  
Fuck.  
  
In the end, they only stayed about five minutes. John considered swooning (he knew how to faint very convincingly, Sherlock had taught him for a case) merely to avoid the media again. But it didn’t seem like the sort of thing Capitan Watson would have done, so he gritted his teeth and bore it.   
  
Once away from the babbling reporters and the Yard, Sherlock had taken John by the hand and twirled him. Sometimes John resented this (short he was, little he was not) but most of the time he found it endearing. Chattering non-stop about the case- ‘The idiots have botched their own burglary and now have to smash every bust in the whole damn city at different rendezvous points’- Sherlock only paused his monologue long enough to plant a quick kiss on the end of Johns nose.  
  
 _The next morning, both John and Greg hated themselves for drinking as much as they had. Furthermore, John was regretting telling Greg about the strange relationship he’d had with Sherlock. It felt as though he’d spoiled the kisses by talking about them._  
  
As it turned out, one of the reporters had followed them.  
  
It was not Kitty (whom Sherlock had every intention of shouting at on sight) but another man with a similar devotion to Sherlock. He had been within a taxi with tinted windows, and paid the driver extra to move slowly through the London rush hour. From his seat, he had photographed the twirl and the kiss.  
  
A picture speaks a thousand words, or so they say, and the photos did indeed seem to confirm all the things that normally defensive John Watson and aloof Sherlock Holmes refused to admit.   
  
John beamed up at Sherlock in the first picture, half turned and hands obviously tight together. In the next, Sherlocks large lips were pursed against the tip of Johns nose. Both men were grinning like fools.   
  
The photo went viral so fast that even if Mycroft had wanted to intervene, it would not have been possible. They were posted to Twitter and the website of the newspaper at once.   
  
When Donovan saw the photos, she went very pink in the face and studied them for a minute each. She felt rather bad for having given them both such a hard time, Before. If nothing else, they were happy together. She then called Greg and Anderson into her office.  
  
Greg did not seem shocked, though did seem worried about something that Donovan could not understand. Was he worried that it wouldn’t work out between the two of them? Anderson spat out his coffee.  
  
Harry Watson was shown the photos by a friend. Tipsy at the time, she had been amused, outraged, and resigned. Part of her thought that John running around London with a skinny man-jacket was the funniest thing in the world. Another part of her was pissed off that John had not told her himself, even via text. Furthermore, she had to resign herself to the fact that John would always be (and would always want to be) in danger, as long as that danger was beside Sherlock.  
  
Mycroft knew about the pictures within four minutes of them hitting the internet. Anthea- whose real name was unknown even to him- seemed to be repressing a smile when she showed him. It was hard for Mycroft to repress a smile of his own, though smiling was not the only thing he felt like doing.  
  
 **JOHN WATAON! i can’t decide if i am happy 4 u or angry that u didnt’ tell me in person**  
  
 **Tell you what? It’s six in the evening, please don’t start drinking now.**  
  
 **Dont b SHY about it. everyone has seen the fotos of u n sherlock**  
  
 **What photos?**  
  
 **how does ur nose feel now? doesz it feel spechail?**  
  
 **Harry what photos?! This isn’t funny**  
  
 **on twitter, u gaybpy. im so rproud of you**    
  
Meanwhile-  
  
 **There are two photos circulating on the internet of yourself and John in what many will consider to be an intimate moment.**  
  
 **What ‘intimate moment’ exactly?**  
  
 **You appear to be twirling him and then kissing him on the nose. They are already viral, I’m afraid. You two being so unfortunately popular.**  
  
 **FUCK. We were followed. At least get the photographer?**  
  
 **Already done, naturally. I hope this sentiment will persist, if it must at all, behind closed doors. You know what might happen.**  
  
 **So does John. Sod off.**  
  
 **A thanks would suffice.**  
  
Sherlock turned to John just as John turned to Sherlock. They were both wearing expressions of almost comical worry. Neither of them liked to talk much about what was happening between them. This, however, would force their hands.   
  
‘I should warn you now that some photos-‘  
  
‘According to Harry somebody took photos-‘  
  
They both stopped, and then started again.  
  
‘I think the best way to proceed would be to-‘  
  
‘You knew? How the hell did they-‘  
  
They stopped again, Sherlock frowning and John trying not to grin too obviously. In the small moment of silence, John saw his opportunity and spoke first. It was important to speak before Sherlock, unless you wanted to be spoken over for the remainder of eternity.  
  
‘Did Mycroft tell you? Wait, obviously he did. What photos do they have? And who the hell took them?’  
  
‘A rather persistent reporter took some photos of us before we got in the taxi.’  
  
‘You mean when you…’ John motioned awkwardly towards his nose and Sherlock nodded, blushing a little. Cursing whoever had taken the photos of them, John pinched his nose for a few moments.  
  
‘And now?’  
  
‘Either make no comment at all, or inform them that the invasion of the personal life of a dead man able to deduce their entire lives is unwise.’  
  
 _He could feel every thread under his hand. It was intoxicating. It was like his mind. Every stitch connected to another, bound together, a unison. Touch. A unison of ideas. The blanket had so many threads. It was like his mind. He could see it, the threads, the cotton, the web, the dead spider rotting at the centre.  
_  
 _It didn’t matter what was happening to his-  
_  
 _The web. If he could find the code Prachett had been using to communicate with the body smugglers, he could- he could- the fabric against his face. And he could see the net. Thread count, against his retina. Focus on that.  
_  
 _Focus on that, not the pain, the invasive-  
_  
 _One two three but he could not count, his body was being shoved forwards into perpetual motion, he could not keep his eye on just one thread. That was the problem. Jim had made such a large web. Had so much thread to see, and he was only one eye, one eye.  
_  
 _One eye and it seemed, one other feeling, the ache of it demanding to be felt, no part of him could unfeel it, and the wetness did not help because he was sure it was blood and he was only one eye, one man, the web was so large and he was sure it was blood-_  
  
They did not talk about the photos for the rest of the day. Sherlock had a case to solve, and as the case involved legwork, he had little time to stop and think about trivial things.  
  
John had more time to ponder the photos. He did not want to ask Sherlock to explain to him what they were. If anybody asked him, he would not say that he and Sherlock were a couple. A couple implied sex, implied a kind of rutting lust that Sherlock did not have, and John did not have for Sherlock.  
  
He did not want to ruin what he had through petty words, and boxes that neither of them would fit in. What they had, John knew, was just them. Was just what they had. Any attempt to study it, to label it, repelled him.  
  
 **I imagine you already know about the photos? MH**  
  
 **Yeah, I do. Nothing you could do about them?**  
  
 **I am afraid not. No government controls the internet, even though some do try.**  
  
 **Thats fine, I understand. What’d Sherlock say to u?**  
  
 **Nothing very polite. I feel the need, John, to remind you of the dangers you face. It is my job, you understand, to keep others safe.**  
  
 **That is NOT your job. You know why i am where I am, ok? U told me so yourself.**  
  
 **It is my job, sometimes. A liking for danger is not the same as having a death wish. I will not have you die on Sherlock unless you must.**  
  
 **I’m not going anywhere. Dead or otherwise. He can haul my body around with him if I die. I’ll put it in the will.**  
  
 **As amusing as your morbid sentiments are, I must insist you consider the matter carefully.**  
  
 **I’ve been a hostage more times than I can count. Ok? I was always a fucking target and we’ve both known it for ages.**  
  
 **You will always be the bravest man I have had the misfortune to meet, Dr Watson.**  
  
 **Stop your insult-laden flattery, Mycroft, and stop texting John.**  
  
 **Stop stealing Johns phone, then. And grow up.**  
  
 **Sorry, Sherlock stole my phone. Are we finished this discussion?**  
  
 **You tell me.**  
  
 **Bye, Mycroft**.  
  
‘I wish you wouldn’t steal my phone.’  
  
‘It’s hard not to, when you’re so short.’  
  
John tried to elbow Sherlock but missed. Pissing off Mycroft had taken the edge off Johns worry, and he was now content to wait in the freezing bushes with Sherlock for the idiotic thief to turn up. A light rain was falling, and Sherlock was glad that his collar turned up enough to protect his neck and ears from the cold.  
  
‘You’ve gotten so skinny,’ John said, softly. ‘Did you eat, while you were dead?’  
  
‘Come now, John, you know dead bodies can’t eat-‘  
  
‘You know what I mean.’  
  
Wincing, Sherlock decided to skip to the end of the conversation.  
  
(Very often, he was able to tell how a conversation would end merely by how it started. In this case, he was alone with a very stubborn John, who was a doctor and worried about his physical health. He would want to know if Sherlock had eaten much during his death. Asking was mere formality- dull- because the answer was obviously no. He would then want to know if Sherlock had used during his death, knowing that their isolation would allow Sherlock to feel more at ease telling the truth. No fear of the Yard hearing, for example. Saying no would be nice, but not practical. One day soon he and John were going to have to truly and properly talk about what had happened during his death. His lie would be found out. John would be angry that he had lied in the first place, and an awful fight would occur. So if he told the truth now- yes, cocaine- then he would have told the truth and avoided future conflict).  
  
Ignoring the cold, he rolled up the sleeve of his jacket. It was dark in the bushes, but not dark enough to hide the slowly fading scars from John.  
  
 _They were not drunk this time, though John was starting to think it would be an easier conversation to have if they were. He had no idea where to put his hands, and Greg kept pulling on his ear and shifting in his seat.  
_  
 _What was he like, before? On the drugs?  
_  
 _Such a loaded question._  
  
 _‘He was like… It was like nothing you ever saw before. He always said he wasn’t addicted. Refused to admit there might have been a problem with shooting cocaine every time he got bored. And I mean, every time. But it wasn’t like, I mean, you and I, we’ve probably both seen a lot of junkies. Sherlock was like them, but he wasn’t, too. He kept drawing from his trust fund, before Mycroft cut it off. So he was half homeless, sleeping on my couch, bleeding from the arms, heaving in my fucking toilet, you understand, and the whole time he’s in those damn silk shirts and these shiny shoes. It was nuts. And he always came to mine, any time he wanted. Broke in, usually. To vomit or sleep. Sometimes, eat, because I don’t think he, ah, kept any food in his own flat… I’m not sure. It was a sty. You think he’s bad now? Well, he is bad now, but he was worse. Kicked out of so many places, you know. And he’d turn up, right, high as shit, you could tell from a mile away, and he’d know me by name. Talk about Brenda- my wife, that is, you never met her, did you?- anyway, about Brenda and how she was cheating, my whole team listening. Solving all our crimes for us. He was always right. Well. He thought he was, and he was more often than not.’_  
  
 _‘Why’d he stop?’_  
  
 _‘It started getting in the way. We had a good case. A real fucking brilliant one, right, the first one in a while that Sherlock took more than a few days over. Would be a good one for the blog. And he thought being high would speed things up. Always said it made the connections better in his Mind Palace.’_  
  
 _‘Don’t get me started on the Mind Palace. Used to lock me out of the flat to visit his Mind Palace… Anyway, continue, I’m listening.’_  
  
 _‘Right. Yeah. Well he got high for this case, and solved it. But then, well, he thought the Yard would be too slow to catch the main guy involved. He thought he was fucking untouchable, that day. And he got knifed like a piglet. Misjudged the whole situation. Total farce. Mind failed him because of the damn cocaine, and he never took the stuff again. Rehab would never have worked, I reckon. Only something like that would’ve gotten someone like him clean…’_  
  
John let his fingers hover over the scars. His hands were steady, which was easy enough to translate into some kind of internal minefield. Sherlock was half-ready for another punch, or at the very least another missile. The lamp had missed, but at close range a fist or shoe would not.  
  
It was not a physical missile that John chose, however.  
  
‘Why?’  
‘You’re not angry?’  
  
‘I’m very fucking angry. But I still want to know why.’  
  
‘It… It wasn’t good. Being dead. I wanted to get back and I thought it would be a good way of working faster, working through the night. People with stupid, small minds react differently to me. It was a bad batch, however. I didn’t have time to test it. And…’  
  
 _And his wrists were sure to bruise, he knew that-  
_  
 _Something had stained the pillow under his face. He could see it darkening the fabric. He wondered how spiders made their webs water proof. He wondered if the fabric beneath him would be harder or easier to rip when wet. No data.  
_  
 _Down, up, and he tried not to feel it down up inside-  
_  
 _Would it matter what had stained? Or no, that wasn’t it, the fabric was made of connections, and Jim James Moriarty would only stain things in blood. Find you and skin you. Dark fabric. Hard to tell. Might be stained with his own blood, might be some other thing, other liquid or other blood…  
_  
 _Was he- was that- in his ears- was that him? making that noise- he hoped it wasn’t him making that noise, that pain- pain in that noise- and he was so eloquent even without his words- stained, and he thought maybe- it was like the inside of his mind- focus- not on the noise- not on the pain- the connections of the fabric, the web- the web the web-_  
  
‘And?’   
  
‘Bad batch. Bad couple of hours. They found me, while I was… It. I. Sorry. But after, I found some better stuff. To forget the bad hours, so I could keep working, come back sooner.’  
  
John seemed to have realised that whatever it was that Sherlock was not telling him (or was telling him, only badly) was perhaps a far more serious issue than the cocaine. The relapse was still an issue, and it took an effort to put the anger aside, but aside it went.  
  
With great care, he pushed the sleeve down again, hiding the scars from sight and pulling Sherlock into a hug. They could both feel the others beating heart. Sherlock thought about blood, about pumping. And John thought about their bones. If somebody were to x-ray them now, their rib cages would be pressed right, their arms a knotted collection of ulna, radius, humerus.   
  
Their first kiss after the return of Sherlock occurred in a cold, wet bush in the dark. John was angry still, and Sherlock was afraid, and both were wrung tight in the knowledge that at any time the man they were waiting for might arrive.  
  
The kiss reflected that. It was teeth, and the pulling on a full lower lip. The slight burn of stubble, and harsh breathing, fingers gripping and nails leaving tracks down skin. It was an imperfect kiss that communicated all the words they’d both chosen to swallow, voluntary or involuntarily.   
  
 **Morning. Sorry to bother you so early, but we need you by 12 for the statement.**  
  
 **Thanks for the warning, I need at least two hours to get Sherlock off the lounge after a case.**  
  
 **Bad, is he?**  
  
 **Been worse.**  
  
 **John, sorry, I’ve got to ask… I saw the photos.**  
  
 **Ah.**  
  
 **You said to me it was just kissing, just something you two did. Is it still? Because, well, those photos…**  
  
 **I know. We still do kiss. I don’t think either of us want to do anything more.**  
  
 **And do you still not talk about it?**  
  
 **What is there to talk about? He’s mad and I hate him and we’re probably going to stuck like this forever.**  
  
 **So you DO love him…**  
  
 **Yeah.**  
  
 **Good luck. And I’m happy for you. You both.**  
  
 **We’re happy too. And good luck with Molly, k Greg?**  
  
 **HOW DID YOU KNOW**  
  
 **Sherlock told me. No point trying to keep a secret around here…**  
  
 **True, that. Tell him he’s a jerk from me, would you?**  
  
 **Sure thing.**  
  
The only time John ever kissed Sherlock anywhere apart from the face occured a few months after his return from death, and a few minutes after a shower. Stepping naked into the living room, Sherlock had demanded the location of all the towels in the house.  
  
(He had forgotten that Mrs Hudson was hiding them on Johns request. When Sherlock started playing with fire, John tended to move their possessions downstairs, a fact Sherlock had not yet grasped).  
  
John had gasped.  
  
Not because Sherlock was tall, pale, wet, leanly muscled or naked. These things he was, yes, but these were not things John noticed. All he could see were the multitude of scars.   
  
Inside his arm, from the cocaine. Across his chest and lower stomach from the knife fight Greg had mentioned. This thighs and knees were a mess of scar tissue, as was his buttocks and feet. This, John knew, must have been the result of the bad batch of cocaine all those months ago…  
  
And so he kissed, gently, every scar on Sherlocks body.  
  
 **John?**  
  
 **I’m in the kitchen, Sherlock. If you want to talk, just shout. Or get off the lounge.**  
  
 **No, lounge is comfortable. Do you love me?**  
  
 **Ah. Should we be texting about this?**  
  
 **I prefer to text.**  
  
 **Right. Well, yes, then, I do. Love you.**  
  
 **Good. I love you also. Now make me tea.**  
  
 **Git.**  
  
They ended up sleeping in the same bed.  
  
Or, they didn’t, but they had the same bed. They cleared out Sherlocks room and turned it into a lab. This meant the chemicals and body parts only had to move up one set of stairs, and could be moved from the fridge with ease.  
  
Most of the time, Sherlock would not sleep at all, or when he did sleep, it would be during times that John deemed strange. Two-hour sleep sessions were common, and for a month Sherlock slept according to the Australian time-zones to prove wrong a cold case the Yard had lent him.   
  
Sherlock had not told John they were to start sharing a room and bed.  
  
One day John had walked upstairs to find a larger bed, larger wardrobe, and Sherlocks clothes inside the wardrobe. There was a note on the bed which read  **‘I like the idea of sleeping with you as long as it’s only sleeping. I already know you feel the same so don’t bother telling me. My own room is now going to be used as a lab. If you have any problems with this, also don’t bother telling me.’  
**  
John made sure he claimed his side of the bed first, to assert dominance over the situation. It made little difference, as Sherlock was rarely present. And when Sherlock was present, the last thing John worried about was who was sleeping on what side. Having Sherlock gentle around him, sleeping and content and no doubt having genius dreams, was more than enough.


End file.
